Blue Fish
by buttercups3
Summary: 22 year-old Lance Sweets is coping with the loss of his loving parents, while balancing a new job at the FBI complete with ornery patients Booth and Brennan and a new potential love interest named April.
1. Chapter 1

_There is very little out there depicting Lance's first days as a psychologist at the FBI, yet I've always wanted to learn more about his relationship with April (which seemed fraught from the beginning), his first impressions of BB in therapy, and his struggle to cope with the loss of his parents (as we learn from "Mayhem," which happened right before he began working at the FBI). As some of my friends here know, I'm not all that comfortable dealing with season 3, so your suggestions and comments are more valuable than ever to me! It took some bravery just to put these first few chapters up. ;) My plan is for this fic to begin right before Lance starts working at the FBI and to end sometime around "Man in the Mud" when April dumps him. But we'll see where it goes. _

*hugs* in advance to those who read/follow.

_Spoilers: Season 3; Disclaimer: Not mine!_

* * *

Lance Sweets had experienced no small amount of sorrow over the course of his 22 years of life. Sometimes he felt as if he were a character in a Thomas Hardy novel—fate dangled him like a hapless spider over a grainy abyss. But he had also known love, joy, and success, particularly in the form of the Sweets, the couple who had adopted him as a fractured 6 year old.

Newly hired by the FBI as a prodigy psychologist and profiler (he had already earned 2 doctorates) and scheduled to begin work in roughly 2 weeks, Lance could only think about one thing: his parents, his twin foundation, were dead. Passed away, deceased, extinguished. There was no comforting way to phrase it, because Lance couldn't bring himself to believe in an afterlife. Sappy as it seemed, however, he did believe that his parents would always reside within him. In his mind, he housed the many memories of them that had colored his life. In his heart—his emotional memory—he stored the feelings of love and comfort with which they had grounded him.

Lance's parents had died within a week of each other. What many people fail to consider is that when your loved ones die (in Lance's case, _all_ of his loved ones, as he was an only child and adopted), you are confronted with the drudgery of sorting out the immense remnants of a person's entire life. Not only is there the funeral, but the house to clean out and sell, the taxes, the legal documents, the medical bills. Both of Lance's parents had been very ill when they had…expired. He was so overwhelmed by the prospect of organizing their miscellany that he was currently sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room of his childhood house, staring blankly, his brain whirring.

Lance had grown up in a suburb of Washington, D.C., and when the FBI recruited him as he was finishing his doctorates, he was glad to have an excuse to return to his native stomping grounds. His parents had had very little time left—both glorified skeletons really—and he had moved home from completing his Ph.D.s in New York to literally bid them farewell. He knew he was lucky; he had gotten to spend their final weeks soaking in their presence. He had left none of his feelings toward them unsaid. They had shared everything with one another, and then his precious mother and father had been gone.

The vacant Lance in the living room said aloud to the stacks of papers surrounding him, "Now what am I going to do with you?" He thought about lighting a match and running for it, but he loved this house. He did have to sell it though. He couldn't afford to keep it up, and he wanted to live in the city. He had never liked the suburbs and had spent the past 8 years living in Toronto, Philadelphia, London, and New York.

The funeral for both was scheduled for tomorrow, since he hadn't been able to put his father in the ground with his mother's health also failing so rapidly. While it would be hell getting through it, Lance was quite proud that he had arranged the event single-handedly. Lance and his mother had shared a love of literature and poetry together. She had always lightly hinted that she wished her favorite Dylan Thomas poem, "Fern Hill," to be read at her funeral. She had cried when she read it aloud to Lance as a young boy. Lance knew the poem by heart and recited its final stanza to himself as he uncrossed his legs and stood, putting his hands in his pocket in an almost casual fashion. His parents' trinkets made a dutiful audience.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me

Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,

In the moon that is always rising,

Nor that riding to sleep

I should hear him fly with the high fields

And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

Time held me green and dying

Though I sang in my chains like the sea.1

His Mom had ridden to sleep, the cancer and grief of losing her husband of over 60 years having drained the life from her fragile shell. But Lance wasn't crying. Whenever he recited that poem he was eight years old again, tucked safely beneath her arm listening to her rich, soothing voice.

* * *

1. Dylan Thomas, "Fern Hill," in _Collected Poems_ (New York: New Directions, 1938), 180.

* * *

After the funeral—a Jewish affair, since Lance's dad had been part Jewish and his mother a Jewess, as she liked to joke—Lance found himself shaking hands with the rabbi he had known on and off from youth. His family hadn't really practiced religion, but they had provided Lance with opportunities to seek spirituality if he had wanted, so he knew this man standing before him as a vague, friendly figure from his past. Lance's shoes were growing wet in the dewy grass of the cemetery.

"Your parents were such lovely people, Lance. They brought joy and laughter wherever they went!" the rabbi said sincerely.

Lance nodded. He was utterly numb. His eyes were still wet from the grim ceremony of several minutes earlier.

"Listen, I hear you are moving to the city," Rabbi Cohen continued.

"I just signed on an apartment in Cleveland Park."

"You should check out Temple Micah. I know you've never been very active yourself, but you could really use some good people to lean on in a time like this. Why not let God's children bring you some food and good cheer?"

Lance thought food and cheer didn't sound so bad. "I'll think about it. Thanks, Rabbi Cohen."

The gentle, rotund man with the ruddy cheeks nodded and departed.

Lance looked at the fresh dirt on his parents' graves and gasped with pain. God, he missed them unbelievably. He really could not imagine a world without them, but it was no time like the present to accept reality. He was on his own now.


	2. Chapter 2

Lance had started his job at the FBI before he knew it. Beginning a new job was always taxing—even finding his new office was a challenge. If Lance thought his brain was maximally stuffed full of his parents' odd and ends before he began working, he was now literally stretched to his limits. And this was a man who gotten two Ph.D.s in under five years.

He had been assigned to a number of agents starting off but was most interested in two partners: Dr. Temperance Brennan and Agent Seeley Booth. What intrigued him about the duo was that the woman was a famous forensics anthropologist and scientist, while Booth had a military and working class background. They appeared to be complete opposites, and he wondered how they functioned as a team. Obviously, not so well if they had been assigned to him. Agent Booth had recently arrested Dr. Brennan's father as a murder suspect. The FBI was thinking of dissolving their partnership because of the potential stress. Lance was supposed to meet with them as soon as possible, but they hadn't been returning his calls.

It was a Saturday, but Lance had been so overwhelmed in his first week that he had come in on the weekend to orient his brain and begin a few criminal profiles. He was also running from his empty life. His head was swimming, his heart aching, and he thought, _I can't stay at work forever. What am I going to do with myself?_

He had just ended an intense relationship in New York and didn't feel like trolling around for a date, not that he dated women casually anyway. But the thought of sitting home alone in his new apartment, which he had barely begun unpacking, was too pathetic to contemplate. He looked up Temple Micah on the internet. Now was as good a time as any to play the Jewish card. Lance was adopted, but he was fairly certain that his biological mother was actually Jewish. He was claiming this now, whether he believed in God or not. Maybe he'd get a really delicious casserole out of it.

* * *

At temple, Lance sat in the back. There was a woman in front of him with a swath of chestnut curls semi-blocking his view, but he didn't mind. He wasn't listening, he was mourning—stewing in pain and grief. His eyes were watery. After the service, the petite woman with the large hair turned around and saw him sitting there. She had extremely round, kind eyes and noticed that Lance was upset.

She stuck out her hand a little abruptly, which made Lance jump. "Hello. I'm April," she said, her voice quavering slightly. Lance presumed she was a bit on the diffident side of social interactions.

"Lance Sweets."

She looked a little nervous that she hadn't given her last name, but forged ahead.

"You new here? I haven't seen you around. I notice when…when younger men come to temple." She clapped her hands up to her cheeks in extreme embarrassment. "I didn't mean that how it sounded!"

Lance laughed, "It's ok." He looked around. There were a lot of old men present, and he could see why April was relieved to locate someone closer to her age. "I can see that I'm a rare commodity."

April asked, narrowing her eyes a bit, "Are you a college student?" There was worry in her tone.

"No! No," Lance tried to laugh, but he hated being perceived as young. There was no giving back his rosy cheeks, plump lips, and soft eyes. He was just a youthful-looking fellow. "I'm a psychologist and profiler at the FBI. I just moved back to the DC area. I grew up here, but well, now I'm back!" Lance decided that April was pretty—not hot exactly—but she had a lovely spirit, a gentleness about her. It reminded him a bit of his mother, though his mom had not been so socially on edge. He found April's nervousness charming really.

"Oh! Well that sounds very interesting! I work with tropical fish, myself." April looked relieved to discover that Lance was around her age and therefore, a potential suitor. If Lance was correct, April was flirting with him.

He gulped. "Oh, that's totally awesome." He cursed himself for using the childish turn of phrase. "Hey, what are you doing right now?"

April responded energetically, "Well, I was just going home…nothing. No, I'm not really doing anything."

"Would you like to have coffee with me?" Lance asked boldly. He was insecure about many things, but when it came to asking out women, Lance had unmistakable guts. He did hate the getting rejected part, though, so he waited on edge.

"Yes! I would like that very much." April flashed small, white teeth.

"Ok, um Firehooks?"

"Firehooks it is," April agreed cheerfully.

Lance thought the young woman seemed so sunny, so buoyant. He hoped he wouldn't poison her with his current misery. He felt like his soul was made out of lead. And he wasn't really that Jewish—he had just been hoping for a casserole. Hopefully, she wouldn't hold that against him. He tripped a little crossing over to walk along side of her. Damn, this part was always so awkward.


	3. Chapter 3

_No updates for a bit, lovelies, after these two, since I'll be at a conference through the weekend. Thanks so much to the kind reviewers and followers so far! *squishy Sweets' hugs for all*_

_Sweetfavouritethings: I think you are correct; no one has really written this period from Lance's p.o.v., which makes it intimidating. ;) Thanks for your support!_

_Jsieber: Oh, if only you knew how massive the backstory is that I've created for Sweets, you might be frightened! Thank you for the compliment!_

_RT: You do appreciate the angst, so I had to deliver! Notice the lack of parental names? Can't do it. ;) I'd almost forgotten how nervous and awkward Sweets was when he began on the show, so I had to be true to canon after my early episode watching fest this week. Also, boy, you're reading my mind again. See following April/Sweets convo. Sheesh. _

_

* * *

_

At the coffee shop, Lance was sitting across from April. He was in a dress shirt and slacks and noticed that April was attired in adorably frumpy clothes—a kind of ill-fitting sweater and long floral skirt. He liked this about her; she did not put on airs. Her palpable nervousness comforted him rather than putting him ill at ease. Lance had some trouble fitting in himself.

April was babbling and Lance had lost the train of the conversation, as he was consumed by his observations and thoughts. He was generally an excellent listener and felt a little guilty, but since his parents' deaths he had been increasingly adrift. He thought about the statistic that one only heard about 40% of what was said to them and forced himself back into the moment.

"Carnivorous fish were introduced into eastern Madagascar and have nearly caused the extinction of an indigenous grebe! Can you believe it?" April was positively flushed with excitement.

_Cute_, Lance thought.

"No, I can't. That's quite…wait, what's a grebe?" Lance asked confused.

"A freshwater diving bird!" she responded. She might as well have added, _silly_. Lance was a bit out of his element, but he regrouped after laughing nervously and a little too loudly.

"So April, what do you have a degree in?" Lance didn't mean that to sound quite as penetrating as it came out. April looked taken aback and blushed.

"I have my masters in marine biology."

Lance immediately picked up on her discomfort and exclaimed overenthusiastically, "That's really interesting!" He wondered why she was sensitive about her degree.

"Most people I work with have their doctorates," she offered.

_Oh_, Lance thought.

"Do you have an advanced degree? I mean, I assume you do, because you're a psychologist. Sorry, I don't know much about your field, other than that you give people advice."

"That's ok. Yeah, I have doctorates in clinical psychology and behavioral analysis," Lance confirmed, feeling like maybe he should have mentioned only one of his degrees.

"Wow, um, that's a lot of Ph.D.s for a young person. How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

Lance thought desperately, _I do mind._ But what could he do?

"I'm 22." He cringed, waiting for the usual reaction of shock and suspicion that came along with confessing his age. April's eyes did bug out a tad. _Great, I've blown it already._

"Um, wow again. Sorry, I'll stop—You're a lot younger than I'd thought," April replied, furrowing her brow.

Lance sorted through his usual range of responses and came up empty. He was too tired to make apologies for himself right now. He suddenly felt like departing.

"Yeah. So April, I've really enjoyed this. Perhaps we could do it again sometime? I've got to catch up on some work at home—new job and everything."

"Oh, of course." They exchanged numbers and parted with a friendly hand shake.

On his walk home, Lance wondered if he was attracted to April. He wasn't sure yet, but he did find the prospect of a new relationship exciting.

His phone rang and it was Dr. Temperance Brennan, whom he had been trying to reach all week to set up an appointment. She was very difficult to pin down. At last, she agreed to see him next Saturday night, claiming it was the only opening she had in her schedule. Lance rolled his eyes at the prospect of coming into work then, but he was still so new to his job that he decided he couldn't afford to burn bridges.

"I will see you and Agent Booth next Saturday at 8pm then, Dr. Brennan. I'm looking forward-"

She hung up on him. _Ouch_, Lance thought. She was abrupt. Maybe counseling the partners wasn't going to be as exhilarating as he was anticipating.

Instead of doing work when he got home, he played Halo 2 on his XBox for roughly 3 hours. After his mind had succumbed to the euphoria of mindless computerized demolition, he curled up on his couch. Thoughts of his parents tore through his numbed state. He wept briefly, then fell asleep without changing his clothes or brushing his teeth.


	4. Chapter 4

_Aside: my first teaching stint was as a substitute teacher for middle school, and I was yep, 22. I have a lot of empathy for Lance in his first session with BB! Poor kid. _

_Don't worry, by the third session things improve. If you've seen The Secret in the Soil, you know what I mean!_

_

* * *

_

"OK, Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth…together…a little closer." Lance was gesturing for the partners to place their hands palm to palm in front of him in his office at the FBI. As Brennan had requested, it was after 8pm on a Saturday night, and Booth looked incensed. Sweets noted that Agent Booth had an imposing, massive presence, if a playful look in his eye.

"Ok yeah, that's perfect! Beautiful!" Lance was almost hyper with nervous excitement. He wanted to do well at the job for which he had been training so long. Part of him felt that if he performed well as a therapist, he would be giving back to the memory of his parents, who had encouraged him on this path. "Now keeping your backs straight, I want you each to lean forward."

This was too much for Booth. "No," he stately flatly.

This rejection caught Lance off guard. He sensed he was fast losing control of the situation. "Excuse me?" he asked innocently of Booth, flinching a little.

Dr. Brennan rejoined with her own snide comment, and then Booth elaborated, "We agreed to see another therapist, not to be action figures for a 12 year old."

_Ok, maybe I never had control of this session_, Lance sighed. Was his age always going to be the sticking point for gaining trust from his patients? With a heavy heart, Lance explained his real age and qualifications to Booth, hoping that the information would miraculously salvage the situation.

Unfortunately, Lance might as well been have perched at the top of a slide—there was no where to go but down.

"I'm sure your mom's really proud of you, Sweets," was Booth's cutting response to Lance's considerable achievement of becoming a Ph.D. at age 22. What hurt the most was that Lance's mom _had_ been extremely proud of her son. She had gotten to revel in his success right before she had passed on. Lance felt a pang of anger at Agent Booth for bringing up his dead mother, but Booth had no way of knowing that Lance had literally lost her weeks ago.

The psychologist composed himself and chose to focus on getting Booth to at least give his title respect, rather than simply calling him 'Sweets,' like a 2 year old. _Dr. Sweets._ It still sent a little thrill up Lance's spine to say his new prefix out loud.

Booth responded by merely demanding once more that Lance sign the release forms. At this point, faced with the formidable heft of the man before him and Booth's genuine desire to subvert Lance's authority, the psychologist balked. He felt like crawling under his desk and waiting for them to go away.

Lance knew he had training on how to handle hostile people, but something about Booth reminded him of the bullies in high school who had cornered him in the locker room every day after gym and punished him for being young, brainy, and tiny. Lance shivered, feeling exceptionally alone. He pushed down the memories of those bullies and the events that had followed when he had tried to take his own life.

Out of nowhere, Dr. Brennan seemed to come to his rescue. Unbelievably, she said, "I don't care how young you are…" Lance felt instant relief. "I've never believed in psycho-therapy," she finished, and his face fell again.

_God, these people are making it hard to hold it together. _Lance was trapped in an absurdist play with no way out. He was absurd, their loathing of him was absurd; how was he going to get them to fill out his questionnaires? He needed this information to process their compatibility as a crime team.

Lance realized that Booth didn't believe that a mere psychologist could have the power to break up their partnership, so he tried a new tactic: convincing Booth that his and Brennan's fates were in his hands. When Booth pretended to not understand why the FBI would want to dissolve their partnership at all, Lance became exasperated. He was nearing the end of his rope. He heard himself utter the words "dude" and "like," again and again betraying his youth, but, _Seriously, how could they be in denial?_

Lance realized and finally said aloud that he understood that the situation might bring up "scary feelings" for Booth. Booth was probably being so hostile because his partnership was extremely meaningful to him, and he saw Lance as a threat to its future. And this was true given the circumstances. Lance could sympathize with a frightened Booth, who merely wished to protect his team.

No sooner had Lance thought the word 'sympathize' than Booth abandoned all attempts at being civil. "I don't have scary feelings," he spat. Then in sarcastic baby talk he continued, "Maybe you need a widdle nightwight-"

This was too much. Lance interrupted, "Agent Booth you've been trying to intimidate me since the moment you've stepped in here, and you've succeeded." Lance was so miffed and wounded, that he couldn't help but be honest. He was a teenager being bullied again. This was unbelievable.

As he went to retrieve the questionnaires, he heard Brennan whisper, "Don't scare the boy." _Boy. I'm just a stupid kid to them. I'll always be ten years younger than everyone I work with, and I'll never be taken seriously_, he thought dejectedly.

Before the partners left Booth made sure Lance knew, "I'm still going to call you Sweets."

How had things gotten so out of hand? Lance thought, _I'm lousy at my job. All these years of training and when I'm finally on my own, I stink at this. _He really wished his parents were here to counsel him. That would never be an option again. With a twinge of panic, Lance realized that he needed to think of a new approach to these two before their next session, or they would clobber him.

Lance was the picture of tragedy as he tramped up the stairs to his apartment in Cleveland Park. He had been rained on during his walk from the subway. His curls were plastered to his face, his suit was sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He had even cried a little, because who would have noticed with all the water, anyway?

Just as he was putting his key into the lock, he heard:

"Meow?" A cat had asked him a question.

He looked down to see the tiniest gray kitten he had ever laid eyes on punctuated by delicate white socks. What on earth was this tiny cat doing on the floor of his apartment building? He was exhausted, and now he would have to find its owner. No, Lance didn't have the strength. He'd check in the morning.

He picked up the little fellow by the ruff and said, "Hey, buddy. I'm more of a dog person, but for tonight, you're staying with me."

After all, Lance was glad for the company. The small feline purred rapturously.


	5. Chapter 5

_This chapter took multiple drafts to find its flow. I'm struggling with this fic and despise it at the moment! I'll try not to desert it, but it almost succeeded in killing my desire to write any and all fics earlier today. ;)  
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_Thanks so much to those following and reviewing! I really appreciate it!_

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* * *

_

The next morning Lance woke up to the kitten rubbing back and forth against his hair, purring like it was an idling motor. First things first—grief seized Lance's chest. This was now his morning routine. At first breath of the new day, new pain. He knew the drill.

_This kitten needs to eat_, he thought without any sense of how to accommodate it. The pungent stench of ammonia pierced his nostrils. So the cat had had an accident. He couldn't blame the tiny creature. He didn't really know what to do with a cat. He'd try to find the owners once he got up, but for the moment he felt like a semi had driven over his forehead. He hadn't been able to sleep for hours last night and had instead poured over the Booth-Brennan files and his notes, while the kitten had hidden under his bed. It had comforted him somewhat knowing the little cat was depending on him. He now grabbed the wee thing and put it on his chest, stroking it absentmindedly. It's tiny ears flattened out to receive its pets.

Impulsively Lance grabbed his iPhone from his nightstand and dialed Frannie. Frannie was his former girlfriend from New York. Also a recent proud holder of a doctorate in psychology from Columbia, she had gone the research rather than therapy route. They had lived together on and off during graduate school over a period of 2 and a half years, one of which Lance spent in London. Frannie had been a good 7 years older than Lance, which had always given him a little thrill. They had parted amicably when both decided to move on in their respective professional directions, though a little part of Lance would probably always be infatuated with this snarky, big-hearted hippie from Berkeley, CA.

"Well as I live and breathe, if its isn't Lance Sweets! I didn't think I'd hear from you again."

"No?"

"No, I thought once you heard I'd moved on from you to Kate that you'd be too ticked to ever speak to me again. No man, not even one as docile as you, likes to be passed over for a woman!'

Lance laughed. "Yeah, I'd heard you'd switched teams. But hey, I'd already dumped you."

"As I recall, I dumped you."

"Hm. We'll have to agree to disagree."

"Well at least I managed to teach you the ways of the world before that went down." She giggled and was most assuredly smoking, which made Lance roll his eyes. Indeed, Frannie would always hold a special place in his heart as the woman who had taught him a thing or two about the fairer sex. They had enjoyed an intensely physical relationship, but Lance had always had the feeling that he was more obsessed with than in love with her. For her part, he thought he was probably something akin to a boy toy.

"Lance—how are you doing with the loss of your parents? Lilia told me. I can't believe you didn't invite me to the funeral! You didn't invite any of us! You miscreant."

"Sorry, it all happened so fast." Lance paused, but didn't feel like opening the can of worms already gnawing at his fragile heart. "So listen Frannie, I need some advice from someone older and wiser." He grinned though she couldn't see it. This had been a running joke between them.

"Shoot, Champ," she said suggestively for old time's sake.

"Ok. I'm seeing these new patients and I need your expert analysis on why I'm failing so miserably with them." Lance went on to explain the Brennan-Booth situation to Frannie, while trying to respect patient confidentiality.

Frannie listened intently and finally said, "First off, you don't actually hate the agent guy, you admire him. You want _him_ to like _you_. Not surprising since you're minus a father, and he sounds like one of those protector types." Lance already knew this, but it helped to hear it. Booth was magnetic. He had been a noncom in the army, as Lance had learned from his file, and had probably measured his self worth by his ability to safeguard his men. Ever since, or perhaps even before then, Booth continued to judge himself by whether or not he was able to successfully protect his loved ones. Lance also sensed that Booth may have experienced a defining trauma in his childhood; he had the kind of defensive, tough-guy persona that signaled he had been tempered by hardship. Lance had experienced his own share of suffering and craved more insight into Booth's emotional landscape.

Frannie was continuing, "Second, the scientist is feeling abandoned by her father, who might go to the electric chair, and now you're threatening to pull out the rug from under her precious partnership? I mean, back off! She's going to be like a mother tigress. You like her too, by the way. She's more similar to you than you care to admit. She cloaks her insecurities about the world with her almost self-righteous intelligence. You used to be really bad about that yourself."

Lance was a little annoyed by that comparison. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, therapy is so irritating. Thanks for reminding me why I went into research."

Lance snorted.

"It'll get better, Lance. You're new at this. Don't let the bastards get you down!"

"Thanks, Fran."

"Peace, Lance."

They hung up. Frannie hadn't really told Lance anything he didn't already know, but it had been comforting just to hear her voice. Lance pondered Booth and Brennan some more. He was torn between wanting to back off and secure their trust and continuing to push them. He sensed neither of them had reached the place yet where they could access, understand, and cope with their emotional baggage. He'd have to settle for some kind of balance between probing and reassuring.

Lance also had to admit fault for the first session going so poorly. _I'm new at this, I'll get better_, he hoped with lingering doubt. He was already eager to try again and looked forward to the appointment he had scheduled with them for Tuesday at 8am, despite the earliness of the hour. (The two seemed to revel in scheduling their time with Lance at unconventional, inconvenient times.) One virtue Lance possessed was patience, and he sensed he would need it in droves for these patients. He was not a quitter; he would embrace their challenge.

Lance sort of wanted to indulge in a rip-roaring game of Halo following the chat with his ex, but he had his cat friend to deal with. He lumbered out of bed and asked around his apartment building on the little one's behalf with no luck. He decided to make a bold move and buy it a litter box and some chow. He didn't want it to suffer while he was trying to find its owner. He had a great deal of compassion for furry animals, though he was less of a fan of fish and fowl. He dubbed the kitten 'Knox' after that famous artillery general who had hauled cannon over 300 miles to help George Washington during the Revolution. This kitten seemed to have come a long way, and like Henry Knox, had kind of saved the day by befriending Lance.

"Here you go, Knox," Lance said as he offered the purring feline some kitten chow. Simultaneously he was listening to a message from April.

"Hello, Lance," she said with tremulous nervousness. "I wondered if you might like to go to a ceramics class with me that's starting this week. Of course, if you're not busy. And care for pottery. If not, don't worry! We can do something else. Or not! Please call. I mean, feel free to call me back." April was having an audible battle with her courage on the message, and Lance was charmed.

Ceramics? Hey, why not? Lance was feeling better than he had in weeks.


	6. Chapter 6

Lance's next session with Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth had crept up on him. He had a few goals for the hour, considering the way things had ended last time. First, he hoped to get the two to admit that they had a rather unorthodox attachment to one another that warranted exploration. Second, he hoped to get each to confess to an emotion—any emotion. And third, was a personal goal—to maintain some control over the direction of their conversation.

Lance was explaining with renewed confidence, "When two independent people…" He stopped as he noticed Booth surreptitiously checking his cell phone down by his garishly colored striped socks. _Failing at goal three already_, Lance thought. He couldn't decide if he was more annoyed by the disrespect or disarmed by the fashion choice.

"Agent Booth, are you listening?" he said with as much patience as he could muster. Even Dr. Brennan appeared provoked and chastised Booth, saying the judge would call with the warrant on their case later.

The two began to argue and Lance decided to confront the issue at hand. "When you argue, how do you two come to a resolution?"

"We don't argue," insisted Dr. Brennan.

Lance rolled his eyes slightly, but cheerfully said, "C'mon, zone of truth right here," spreading his arms to suggest the extensive boundaries of the mythic zone of truth his office constituted.

The pair resumed bickering, which quickly devolved into Booth complaining that Dr. Brennan had practically told him "my penis was going to shrink if I don't eat organic food."

Lance raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the introduction of sex. These two clearly had an attraction. They were flirting! Did they realize this?

Booth said, "My penis is just fine thank you."

Lance grinned and said, "Now we're getting somewhere. Alright I think we're in that truth zone!" He was excited that they were making progress.

Booth reacted angrily to Lance's interjection and demanded that the psychologist score their tests so that they could get back to crime fighting. Lance thought, _Booth pours himself into his job, it consumes him. Booth is afraid—afraid of failing to catch murderers, afraid of letting down his partner, afraid that the FBI's decision to investigate his partnership with Brennan might undermine the most important thing in his life. _He went for it.

"Yeah, that's good Agent Booth. Now let the anger lead you to the fear. You can't be whole, you can't do your job to its fullest unless you get in touch with that fear you feel."

Though he noticed an exchange of skeptical glances, he suggested that Dr. Brennan and him close their eyes while he helped Booth visualize letting go of his fear. It was a classic therapeutic technique, and he was eager to test it out. This seemed the perfect opportunity.

Lance had his eyes closed and was concentrating intently. He wasn't about to allow these two to intimidate him. He knew how to help Booth, and damnit, he was going to whether Booth liked it or not.

Suddenly snickers pierced his concentration. He opened his eyes.

"Real mature, guys," he complained, seeing that he was the object of their laughter.

Booth's phone rang. It was the judge. "Gotta run, Sweets."

Lance had to admit, they were parting on a much less hostile note this time. Booth was even smiling at him. Lance shook his head and then indulged in a little smile himself. He could not wait to interpret the questionnaires the two had handed in.

A question leapt out, which read, 'On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you trust your partner?' Brennan's answer: 10. Booth's answer: 10. Lance thought, _There is so much more than meets the eye with these two._ Lance didn't trust any living person with a 10. He probably never would, now that his parents were gone.


	7. Chapter 7

_Thank you so much to those reviewing and following! I need the support for sure! **Fear Herself**, thanks for the compliment! I always wished that we knew more about Sweets in season 3, but I guess the writers hadn't fully committed to the character yet. **RT**, thanks for discussing this season so thoroughly with me and for encouraging me in the Booth-Sweets relations department. Also I really appreciate you saying that I got April's voice down on the message. I don't have a lot to go on, as you know! Just the one episode. My struggles with this story continue!_

* * *

Lance Sweets was sitting in his office at the FBI staring at the wall. He was in distress and barely aware of where he was. He had just gotten off the phone with his parents' lawyer, who had given him the distressing news that he couldn't access any of his parents' bank accounts to pay off their debts. It was some kind of misunderstanding, pure and simple—one that would take time and phone calls to rectify. Lance couldn't afford to pay the lawyer, as the man well knew, and would have to tend to this himself. The new psychologist was having trouble making ends meet. He had recently moved into a new apartment and paid his parents' funeral expenses, and he owed on his grad school loans. He had only just begun at the FBI and had no nest egg to fall back on.

Lance stared and stared and heard the ticking of his watch resonating in his arm like it was pumping the last vestiges of life up toward his tired heart, heavy with bereavement. It was nearly 8 at night and Lance was still at work. He would have lingered there for hours more, if he hadn't scheduled—

A tentative knock shattered his morose reverie.

Lance cleared his throat, which ached it was so dry. "Come in."

"Hello Lance!" said April, again frumpily attired but smiling. "It wasn't easy navigating this place, but a security guard helped me. This building is amazing from the inside. Do you help catch criminals…or just see agents in therapy?" The first part of the last sentence betrayed utter enthusiasm, the second part disappointment.

Lance had to admit he had hardly done any profiling at the FBI so far. He was mostly seeing agents, as April so lacklusterly suggested.

"Um, I do both." He decided to fudge the truth a little. He hadn't helped catch any criminal yet as far as he knew.

"Ooh, can you tell me anything about a case?" April had sat down upon his couch and was looking eagerly at him.

"Actually April, don't you think we'd better leave for the ceramics class? It's nearly 8."

"Yes, certainly. Let's go! I'm so glad you decided to come."

Lance smiled and turned off his computer, which had been glowing austerely behind him. He then reached out to take April's hand. She gazed demurely at the ground and seemed very pleased with this development. So Lance squeezed a little. He knew it was too early to hope that tonight was going somewhere physical, but there was nothing like sex to take your mind off what ailed you. He smiled at his date and wondered what she'd be like in bed. Was she one of those girls who appeared reserved but was wild behind closed doors? He would hold out hope for that.

* * *

At the class, Lance was making a terribly phallic pot that kept drooping a little. It depressed him that he seemed to stink at ceramics. He was already feeling bad enough. He felt April's eyes on him.

"Lance?"

"Yes, April?"

"Can I ask, I don't mean to pry, but you seem a little down. Even your pot looks weary! Is something the matter? Are you not having fun here!" It was a statement rather than a question. "We could leave!" Her panic was mounting.

Lance reached over to the woman with the dark eyes and dark hair sitting across from him and took her hand. She was able to keep her pot smoothly turning with the other hand, but his pot utterly collapsed. Lance gave up and turned it off.

"April, I feel like I haven't been entirely honest with you about who I am right now."

"Who you are?" she looked like she thought he was going to confess to being a homicidal fiend.

"I'm, well, frankly, I'm a mess. I'm grieving for the loss of my parents. They died just weeks ago."

"Oh my! Lance, I'm so sorry to hear that. Did you want to talk about it?"

Lance thought that this was an odd response and interpreted that she didn't want to hear about it. "No, that's ok. I'll be fine, I'm just distracted."

"Ok."

Lance thought, _ok then_. He began making a new pot from scratch. The clay felt exquisite in his fingers—cool and soothing.

"This is nice! It's relaxing," he admitted aloud.

Unfortunately, April took this comment to the extreme and signed them up for ceramics every week for the next month. Lance would have rather been playing Halo, but he supposed he had six other nights a week for mindless video games. Now they were true solace from his brain's constant whirring.

Lance took April home to her apartment. A small part of him wanted to come in, but he would settle for a good night kiss. He leaned in as she turned her head—they smacked faces uncomfortably.

"Ow!" April cried. Lance's tooth had grazed her lip.

"I'm sorry!" he exclaimed miserably. He cursed his awkwardness. "Shall we try that again?" he asked hopefully. She nodded.

He held April's face in his hands and leaned in slowly. Their lips met. Hers were warm and soft like summer fruit. He allowed himself to forget his pain. They kissed for awhile quite pleasurably considering their tragic first attempt.

Finally, they bid each other good night, and Lance allowed the shadowy night to engulf him as he trudged the several blocks home. He and April were practically neighbors. That was a comforting thought.


	8. Chapter 8

_I know this chapter has a sense of finality, but it's not over yet, folks. :) I dedicate this chapter to the lovely RT, who helped me to think through some of my issues with Booth at this point in the series. It was an enormous help! _

_Thanks for the reviews and follows as usual, all._

* * *

Lance was facing another impending nighttime appointment scheduled with his most challenging patients. They were to arrive in a few moments, but Lance was waging a desperate battle with his own emotions. He had saved a message on his cell phone from his mother so that he could hear her voice, but somehow his phone had erased it. This relic of her was now forever deleted from his world. Tears welled up, and he willed them away by swallowing hard. He knew he needed to gather his strength for the counseling session to come. Showing weakness to Booth and Brennan would be like entering a gladiator arena unarmed.

For several days, Lance had been pouring over the questionnaires Booth and Brennan had filled out. Though he had suspected that the two were close, their answers revealed a kind of bond he would have only imagined existed in married couples. He now believed that it was highly unlikely that Brennan's father's trial would unravel their partnership. Test it, sure. But he sensed that they needed a test and that it would only make them more determined in their commitment to each other. He also knew that they totally needed him as a guide to help them navigate their complex emotions. He suspected…how to put this simply, that there was love between them. But neither was willing to admit the gravity of their attachment quite yet.

Lance felt a combination of admiration and concern for the Booth-Brennan relationship. It wasn't professional, this bond they had forged, but it was beautiful, in a way. Lance had to admit, he was almost jealous. He had friends (most of whom were currently living in different states), but he had only been that close with his parents. Perhaps most confusing for Lance was that he desperately wanted to make friends at the FBI, and he liked Booth and Brennan above all other new acquaintances, just as Frannie had predicted. He desired their camaraderie, whether this was appropriate or not, because they were clearly awesome at friendship when they committed to someone. So he would be gentle tonight. He was too tired and sad to attempt the tougher approach anyway.

Speak of the devils.

The two Bs shuffled into his office. Was it his imagination or did they look nearly as dejected as Lance felt?

"So case finished?" Lance began.

The partners gave a weary assent.

"Congratulations," Lance offered genuinely, but Booth and Brennan seemed remote. "You don't seem too happy," he said pointedly.

Booth contemplatively confessed, "Sometimes when you win you end up with somebody else's pain and screwed up life."

Lance had a brief flash back to when he had interned at a mental health facility in Philadelphia, while completing his masters' degree at Temple. One of the schizophrenic patients, Lacy, had made vast improvements under his watch—she had even hugged him before he left. One week later, she had thrown herself out a window. She'd believed she was being chased by a pack of furious wolves. Lance felt that her progress had been obliterated by his departure at a crucial point. To this day he blamed himself. But that was neither here nor there.

Booth had added, turning to Lance, "You work for the FBI, you should know that."

Lance was touched by Booth's admission of pain. He wanted Booth to know that he was impressed. "It must be a challenge for you to access those feelings," he said to Booth.

As had happened several times now in therapy with these two, a dam broke and suddenly Brennan was yelling at Lance. She claimed that Lance didn't know Booth, didn't know either of them.

Brennan growled, "BACK OFF."

Lance was taken aback. He replied honestly, "I'm just trying to help."

Brennan spat, "By questioning his humanity?"

This time Booth swept to Lance's defense, and told Brennan she was overreacting. Not only had Booth come to Lance's aid, but he must have read the young psychologist's genuine distress at being misinterpreted.

Booth continued to Brennan, "He's just a kid, alright? The worst thing that's probably ever happened to him is that he lost at Mortal Kombat."

Lance wasn't about to touch that one. He knew he had an innocent face, but Booth's comment cut the little boy who still stirred within him. Still, Lance guessed that his conjecture about Booth's own troubled childhood was probably spot on. How was Booth to know that Lance was physically marked by his past torment even now? Booth did not have x-ray vision, after all.

"Are you normally this protective of each other?" Lance asked quietly.

Then Booth said something that confirmed it for Lance—there was love between these two people sitting before him. "Sweets I can only hope that one day you know what a real partnership is."

Though the comment had a touch of superiority, Lance thought in response, _I hope so too._ He wanted love, a family, children. He desperately desired these things. An image of April flicked before his subconscious, and he wondered if she would turn out to be 'the one.' Whether she did or not, it was nice to have the prospect of new love in his life.

Lance told his patients it was obvious that they were close, and they complemented each other. Booth marveled that Brennan-Bones-would have complimented him on the questionnaire.

Brennan corrected him, "Com-ple-ment. Ple. He means we complete each other…as a team."

Booth seemed uncomfortable by the correction, first, and the potential romantic subtext, second. Lance thought that Booth was a kind of blue collar man, surrounded by brainy scientists day in and day out. But Booth was also very sharp. He could read people—as he had read Lance's discomfort when Brennan had jumped all over him several moments ago. Lance also knew that Booth solved the majority of his cases at the FBI—a very impressive feat. The man was clearly observant, intuitive, and smart. Further, he was compassionate. Lance thought, Booth needs someone on his team. He thought about how Brennan had just disdainfully labeled his own psychological analyses as 'subjective' and 'unscientific.' He and Booth were more alike than he could have imagined.

Lance wrapped up the session by informing the partners that they could keep working together but would need to continue seeing him to address underlying issues over the next few months. He noted aloud that there was a deep emotional attachment between them.

They looked thrilled to have his blessing. At that moment, it dawned on Lance that he really had had the power to end their partnership. They had been concerned, despite their perpetual sass. Lance was finally a true therapist, whose counseling had real and lasting consequences for people. It was a grave responsibility. And suddenly, he felt he had done well by these two.

He was writing down a few thoughts and became aware of Booth and Brennan discussing whether or not they would still be friends if they weren't partners. Brennan seemed to be suggesting that they wouldn't, which greatly distressed Booth. Lance smiled. Their affection for each other was palpable. He stopped writing to observe these two fascinating people.

Lance had come so far from his first impressions of the pair. He felt oddly contented in their presence now.


	9. Chapter 9

_It's a Blue Fish marathon…because it's dreary and raining and smells like dog in my house. What else is there to do? Work, smurk. This shamelessly self-indulgent chapter is dedicated to the other three people in the world who still enjoy poetry. I also felt a need to give a back story to the fact that Daisy reveals Lance is a swimmer in the season finale, which seems like it would have been fraught for our scar-riddled Baby Duck. _

_RT, see how with your help I had everyone make nice? I couldn't have done it without you. Thanks to the others who are still reading and encouraging silently or vocally._

_

* * *

_

Lance ground to a walk on the treadmill at the FBI gym. He was drenched. He noticed several burly agents spotting for each other on the bench press, but otherwise it was pretty quiet here before 7 am. Lance wasn't much of a morning person, but he had been sleeping so poorly lately that he'd come in to check out the facilities. He knew he should lift more weights, but he was far more committed to running and swimming. He also occasionally biked, but his bicycle had gotten stolen in his move from New York. Someone had lifted it right off his friend's car's roof rack. Leave it to the audacity of New Yorkers.

Lance got off the treadmill and surveyed his accomplishment. He was under 7 minutes per mile and pretty pleased. He certainly wasn't in the best shape of his life. He regarded his slightly pudgy middle with suspicion. He'd better work on that if things continued to go well with April.

He packed up his stuff and headed for the showers, which were thankfully abandoned. Warm water flowed over his skin like caressing hands. He allowed his brain to empty and just take in the pleasure of his post-work-out high. He heard other men's voices fade in and out in the locker area and recited to himself:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question …

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"1

What _is_ it, Lance? he asked himself and turned off the water. He had no idea what life was without the people he loved. He hoped it was not a vast stretch of emptiness. All talk and no substance. Reciting poetry always made him feel less corporeal, less real. More connected to his deceased mother.

Lance hated public showers—that went without saying. Sometimes, even though he was an adult, he would still change in a bathroom stall just to spare himself the stares. He thought briefly of his high school tormenters grabbing him, yanking off his towel, and laughing at his underdeveloped body and his mutilated back. He headed for a stall, since he didn't feel like being known around the FBI locker room as a freak show. Not yet anyway.

The gym had always been a site of mixed feelings for Lance—embarrassment and accomplishment. In high school, he started off in track but also developed into a decent swimmer. His swim teammates grew to tolerate him, because he put up good times on the board and had great form. Eventually, they just stopped caring about his scars. By college, Lance had lengthened to over 6 feet tall and blossomed into an excellent swimmer. He swam one of the hardest races—the 200 fly—and people actually feared him. His back just made him appear more tough and grizzled. Swimmers from other universities mostly stayed out of his way. But still, there always remained that moment of panic when Lance disrobed before the pool. He never felt uglier or more beautiful than when he was in the water. Everything in his life seemed to have a double edge to it.

As Lance was exiting the FBI gym, freshly attired in a crisp suit, he heard:

"Sweets." Unmistakable. He knew that voice. He said a prayer of silent thanks to the fates for Booth's appearance now and not earlier, when he could have seen the scars.

_It's decided. I won't be working out at the FBI gym_, Lance thought. Too risky. He didn't need any of his patients finding out about his own traumas. He needed to seem cool, collected not crazy himself. His scars undermined his credibility as a mental health professional.

"Agent Booth," he nodded. Damn, Booth was a beef cake in his gym clothes. The armholes of his shirt were taut to bursting over the man's burly biceps. Lance was impressed and stared a little before beginning to pass on his way. He wanted to stay and talk, but he didn't know what to say.

Booth reached out a hand to stop Lance and gripped his shoulder briefly. The gesture was not unpleasant, Lance noticed. He was often uncomfortable when people he didn't know very well touched him. He must be growing more accustomed to Booth.

"Not so fast, Sweets. I heard that you sent up a report to Andrew on me and Bones."

Sweets gulped. He thought his report had been positive, but Booth was looking severe.

"Andrew said that you were impressed with our partnership. That you believed it would take a major force of nature to upend it. He said you think that we are the best crime fighting team at the FBI, and the Bureau would be crazy to break us up."

Booth's expression was flat, which confused Lance. That's right, he had praised them quite a bit. Why was Booth so somber?

"You're a good kid, but you have a lot to learn. Keep your head up."

Lance nodded and walked away still befuddled. More words, ancient relics of his memory, invaded his thoughts:

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.2

_Oh_, Lance thought, once the poetry had dissipated. Booth understood that Lance had read the partners clearly and correctly. Lance had invested in getting to know them better than anyone else had at the FBI. He had stood up for them, and in turn, Booth had placed some trust in him. Booth wasn't being cross, he was being serious. He did that occasionally, despite his propensity to sarcasm. Lance felt warm inside. Maybe he would make it out of the inferno and back to the surface of the earth after all.3

* * *

1. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," T. S. Eliot, 1917.

2. Ibid.

3. T. S. Eliot quotes _Dante's Inferno_ in Italian at the beginning of "Prufrock." In the passage, basically Guido (awesomely encased in a hell flame) tells Dante some secrets, because he thinks Dante won't be able to return from hell like normal dead people. But Dante does return—he's just a visitor to hell! This is a cycle I see repeat over and over in Lance's life. What can I say-poetry major in college. That, like emotional pain, never dies. ;)


	10. Chapter 10

_Glad I could take care of the swimming business for you RT! Blue Fish continues...in this chapter I'm hoping to establish context for Booth's desire to have Sweets profile in The Boy in the Time Capsule, Sweets' next episode in Season 3. Hope it works out! Bernie, a new character, is based on a guy I used to work with-seriously. He actually did this...  
_

_ Thanks readers! *hugs*_

_

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_

While Lance had turned a corner with Agent Booth, he still had to admit he was a bit intimidated by the guy. Lance found, however, that he didn't have much time to contemplate his sessions with the Bs for the next few weeks. They were too busy for weekly therapy, and Lance was suddenly inundated with profiling assignments. One of the higher ups had noticed the psychologist's impeccable work, and now his desk was covered with profiling piles that seemed to have no beginnings or ends. The influx of work was making it hard for Lance to even schedule time with April, and he was hoping to make some progress in their relationship. That opportunity might arise tonight, as they planned to have dinner at April's apartment for the first time—an exciting prospect. One that maybe even warranted stopping by the drugstore. A guy could hope.

Lance was grinning at this thought when Bob Snyder—a corpulent profiler at the FBI—walked into his office without knocking. Bob and Lance were basically arch nemeses. Lance had recently been given a number of Bob's assignments, since in Lance's opinion, the sour fellow wasn't very good at his job in addition to being an all around unpleasant human being.

Bob sneered at Lance, who wiped his own smile off his face immediately. "Big Boss wants us up for a briefing with some agents on a serial case, Sweetie."

Lance took the high ground and followed Bob out the door of his office into the elevator. A pleasant sight awaited him—it was Agent Booth and his cocky belt.

"Sweets," Booth nodded. He just looked at Bob. Did Lance detect a hint of derision in Booth's glance at the rotund profiler? This made Lance feel even better—Booth was on his side. It also comforted him to confirm that everyone hated Bob.

"Are you on this serial case, Agent Booth?" Lance asked conversationally.

"Nah, Sweets, not technically, but Andrew wanted me to pop in and check on it. It's not going very well—mismanaged. Poor profiling," he finished, obviously taking a shot at Bob. Booth was attempting to restrain his broadening smile. Lance figured Bob had already been working on this case and had failed miserably.

Lance was very careful not to hint that he was Booth's therapist. He reminded himself that he worked in more than one capacity with the agent, and it wouldn't do to make Booth appear weak in front of small men like Bob.

The three suited men entered a meeting room with a round table at its center. There were no more seats available, as the room was packed, so Booth leaned against a wall and Sweets stood next to him, his hands in his pockets. Bob inched as far away as he could manage given the crowded state of affairs.

Andrew, Booth's boss, was there and so was Lance's profiling boss, Bernie Carlton. Woah, they had pulled out the big guns, Lance thought. This case _must_ be going badly.

He whispered to Booth, "This case must be going totally awry for them to pull in all these people."

The corners of Booth's mouth turned up. "Sweets, you have no idea."

Andrew called the meeting to order and began explaining that a serial killer had struck in DC, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. They couldn't find links among the victims yet, but it seemed they weren't random. He briefly laid out the details of the case. Andrew praised the hard work of a few dedicated souls but was also clearly riding Bernie for inefficiency. Yeah, Lance thought, Bob had flubbed this and Bernie was taking the heat.

Bernie had an enormous paunch—like he was concealing an overblown basketball under his shirt. The fabric by his buttons pulled precariously. But Bernie was jolly as a Santa, and Lance was actually quite fond of him.

Booth looked bored, so Lance chanced whispering to him again. "Agent Booth, do you talk to Bernie much?"

"Occasionally Sweets, why?" Booth whispered back, looking grateful for the distraction.

"Because you know he has that deep booming voice, but when he gets on the phone with his wife, he totally switches over to baby talk! Have you heard it?" Lance knew it was unprofessional, but he also knew he desired Booth's friendship.

"What?"

"Yeah, Bernie like doesn't hesitate to answer the phone in front of you and talk baby talk to his wife. And she's this straight-laced British woman. Just wait. You'll hear it someday. Everyone does eventually."

Booth lifted an eyebrow. He seemed intrigued. He smirked.

Bernie was directing his gaze at Lance, which made the psychologist blush like a school boy who had just been caught talking during an exam. "Andrew, I'd like to offer up my newest profiler—he's also a psychologist here. Lance Sweets. He's damn young, but I think you'll find he's the best we got. I have complete confidence in him."

Bernie's voice was hearty, and Lance was touched by the praise. He was also a little embarrassed for poking fun at him a moment before. It was immensely kind of Bernie to talk up Lance in front of everyone. He'd better do his boss's words justice.

From what little bit Lance had heard of Andrew's briefing, he actually had an idea on the profile. He did wish he'd been listening more carefully rather than soliciting Booth's attention.

Lance spoke up, "I think you've been looking for the wrong _aged_ person."

Andrew looked surprised and uncertain. "Really? But ages 30-40 seems…"

Lance interrupted, "You're looking for an 18 year-old or around that age. I'm pretty sure. He's just graduated from high school—look for someone who caused problems in high schools here in DC." Lance approached the map of the locations where the murders had been committed. "See? Washington is where the murders began. This kid, he'd probably been fostered in his teenage years." Lance continued with more likely details. A few onlookers were shaking their heads, as if to say, how could this kid get so much from such a short briefing?

Andrew finally said, "Ok, kid. Write up your profile. It's worth a try since we haven't gotten anywhere lately."

Lance nodded. As he was leaving, his boss patted him on the shoulder and went out into the hall to take a call on his cell.

Booth came up behind Lance and said, "Sweets, you're not making any friends with the other profilers here. I heard Bob curse your name under his breath. He looked like he was thinking of sending you a letter bomb."

Lance smiled and then stopped.

Bernie was clearly on the phone with his wife in the hall, because he was cooing, "You widdle wascal. I told you I wanted pot woast tonight. I'll haf to make you sowy later!"

Lance gave Booth a knowing nod. Booth's mouth hung open in disbelief, and then he cracked up before shuffling off.

Lance hoped this was a sign that he was in with Booth…at least a little.


	11. Chapter 11

_Well, I was reluctant to write this chapter, because as an audience we don't have much to go on with April, but I hope I've done her character a solid. I really appreciate the reviews and support! This story is slow in coming and thrives on feedback. Credits go to Rochelle Templer's "The Heart of the Family" for Lance's birthday! If you haven't read her amazing and epic story, I can't recommend it enough!_

_**Mendenbar**__, how funny that you have known your own share of Bernies! The first time I experienced this, I was desperate to tell someone about it. I'm glad also that I could do Sweets/Booth some justice for you. Thanks for reading!_

_**Mysterious Jedi**__—I think Booth is warming up even more than he can admit to himself. Sweets is pretty lovable. We'll see some more Booth love in the next chapter._

_**Selin74**__, thanks for all of your reviews of late!_

_**RT**__, I agree. Booth is allowed to make fun of Sweets' age, but I doubt he'd stand for it if others started picking on Sweets in a cruel way. It's the big brother thing._

_Next chapter…BB looking murderous in cowboy and Sherlock Holmes hats. :) God, I love The Boy in the Time Capsule!_

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* * *

_

Lance did get lucky with April, and one lucky night turned into many. They began spending at least 3 or 4 nights a week together, which was a comfort to Lance. He always hated sleeping alone, especially these days when he couldn't get his mind off his parents. Every moment he was not actively contemplating work or analyzing his progress with April was spent morosely turning over memories of his parents.

At the moment it was 8pm on a late October night, the weather chilly and crisp. Lance had just gotten off work and arrived at April's for the night. She was putting the finishing touches on some chicken matzo soup in the kitchen, and Lance sat on her couch in his suit. He had some clothes at April's but didn't feel like changing. He was remembering a time when he had been very ill at age 8. Indeed, he had been sick often as a child, considering he had been rather malnourished and neglected in his early years prior his adoption.

_Young Lance was in bed, sweating and weeping a little. His mother put a cool hand on his furnace of a forehead and sang, "Hush a bye, don't you cry, go to sleep little baby. When you wake you shall have cake, and all the pretty little horses." Her voice was rich and smooth and enwrapped Lance like a satiny blanket._

Lance sat perfectly still on April's couch, the eerie music filtering through his brain. His eyes were red and sad. April came in briefly, not noticing that anything was amiss.

"Lance…sorry, but I'd like to give the matzos just a few more minutes to set before we eat, ok?"

Lance forced a smile. "Sure, no problem." He didn't have the least bit of appetite. He whipped his computer out of his bag and decided to play a video game for a few minutes to take his mind off his mother. He was a little disappointed that April hadn't noticed his distress, but he thought, if I want to talk about it, I should say something. If I don't, then why am I complaining?

Within seconds he was blasting soldiers to bits—their blood and guts spattering on brick walls. He was calm and focused again. He didn't notice but April had come up behind him, her hands on her hips.

"Ah-hem," she cleared her throat. Still no response from Lance, the killing machine.

"Lance?" she said in a quiet, annoyed tone. "Lance!" she repeated sharply, as if disciplining a dog.

Lance was so startled that his character was obliterated. "Aw," he said disappointed. Then he turned innocently to April, "Yes?"

"Dinner's ready," she said a bit huffily. "And don't forget, tomorrow night we have ceramics, so you can't stay so long at work, ok?" She briskly headed for the table where steaming bowls of soup awaited Lance. He did love her kosher cooking, though he struggled to remember the rules of the pots. His faux-Jewishness was beginning to wear on him.

Lance took a bite of soup and decided he was hungry after all. He began wolfing it down, slurping a little. April eyed his exuberant feasting with a touch of disgust.

"You're still in your suit."

Lance looked up, a little soup dribbling down his chin. "Uh-huh." He nodded like a little boy who'd forgotten to wash his hands. Lance decided to try a new topic of conversation. "So I did a profile for Agent Booth this week!" His excitement was manifest. "The team at the Jeffersonian has been on the wrong trail, I think. They believe the murderers are this couple—Greg and Lola. It's true that the couple is a little disturbing. Lola would have Greg fool around with girls, so she could catch them in the act; then she'd have an excuse to rough them up. But I think," Lance emphasized proudly, "that the murderer's a man working alone. A blue collar kind of guy—April? Are you listening?"

April was surreptitiously eying the magazine on the chair next to her, which had Ben Stiller on the cover. "Hm?" she asked. "Oh yes, you were profiling…have you actually helped catch a murderer yet?"

Lance's face fell. She wasn't very receptive to hearing about his work.

Now April changed the subject. "Lance, do you want to buy a condo?"

"What?" he asked startled. With her?

"You know, are you thinking of buying property instead of renting. Renting is such a burden. You can't paint, decorate, start a garden. I'd love to buy a condo in the city."

"Um, well, April, I'm just out of grad school and have a bit of debt to pay off. So no, I'm not thinking of buying yet. But I guess it's part of my ten year plan."

"Wow, ten years huh? That's a long time!"

"Well, I'm only 22, so I think I have awhile before I should take on home ownership. Besides, I'm trying to sell my parents house right now. It's a real pain. I hate to see it go."

April's eyes seemed to fall at the mention of his age. She didn't inquire more into the situation with his parents' house either, although the impending sale was weighing heavily on Lance's mind.

"I'll be 23 soon enough," Lance said hopefully. He felt bad that he was so young. He was obviously disappointing April with his lack of adult plans. Lance stared into space for awhile, thinking about his childhood home. His room had blue walls and luminous stars on the ceiling to this day, just like when he was a boy.

April regarded him and asked, "When's your birthday?"

Lance replied, "In April. Like your name!" he added goofily in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"That's not that very soon, Lance!"

Lance felt a little like he was under attack for something he couldn't help. "I'll get the dishes. Thanks for dinner. It was delicious."

While Lance did the dishes, his suit coat off and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, April sat up on the kitchen counter to continue their increasingly awkward conversation. Lance had been hoping for a break. No such luck.

"So Lance, how old were you when you went to college?" she pried.

"Um," Lance ran hot water over his hands and the pot he was scrubbing. "I was 14."

"Wow, that must have been…hard. You couldn't drive, you probably didn't really impress the ladies." She smiled. "Am I right?"

"You are. I wasn't a particularly impressive 14 year old. I was about 5'3 and very scrawny."

"It must have been hard to go through all the markers of growing up at a different phase than everyone around you."

While her statement seemed compassionate on its surface, Lance couldn't help but feel that she was judging him. Yeah, it had sucked being younger than everyone in school. He had been picked on and hadn't gotten a date till he was 17. He grew defensive, "Sure, but I managed. Look, can we talk about something else?"

April recoiled and hopped down. "Ok, sorry. I was just trying to get to know my boyfriend a little better. You're so mysterious about your past." She began to walk away, a little hunched and defeated.

"Aw, April, I'm sorry." Lance turned off the water and hastily dried his hands before catching up to her. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and held her against his body.

They stood like that for a moment. They both closed their eyes and relished the human contact. Finally, Lance led his girlfriend to the couch and sat down next to her. He folded his hands in preparation for his least favorite conversation in the world.

"April, we haven't really talked about…my past yet." Lance meant the scars. They hadn't discussed the scars. "Is there something you'd like to ask me? I promise, I won't get defensive this time."

April exhaled. "Did someone hurt you?" she asked nervously.

"Yes, my biological father. I've told you I was adopted at age 6; since that time, I was given as wonderful a life as anyone could hope for by my true parents."

"Did your dad…whip you?" she had a dual look of curiosity and guilt on her face.

"You don't have to feel bad that you're curious. I know how I look. I'd be curious too," Lance sighed. "That man, who was certainly not my dad, did whip me." April cringed at the correction. "He did a vast array of things that no father should ever do to a son."

April looked scared by this statement. She couldn't look Lance in the eyes. "Where is he now?" she asked, her voice quiet with awe.

Lance said, "Don't know. He was never caught. He set the house on fire and left me to die."

April's mouth dropped open. "But you were saved."

Lance nodded seriously. "I was saved."

"Wow, this is…a lot. Wow." April had put her hand over her mouth, as if to contain her shock.

"I'm sorry, but it's who I am. I've done my best to overcome my past. I've had a lot of help along the way…my parents—" But Lance's voice cracked. He knew he'd cry if he continued, so he didn't.

"I'm really sorry for the pain you've been through," April said with deep compassion. Her round, brown eyes were watery.

Lance smiled at her dimly and mumbled, "Thanks."

Simultaneously, they reached for one and another. They hugged for a long time, the dishes forgotten. Lance wondered if relationships were supposed to be this hard.


	12. Chapter 12

_Just wanted to reiterate, I took Lance's birth month from Rochelle Templer's The Heart of the Family here on FF. Didn't want to get too much credit! Everyone's reviews have been very kind! Thanks._

_sweetfavoritethings-thanks for your comments on April. I appreciated reading your take on her, as it helps me to better envision this ill-defined person._

_RT-I'm glad I could take you on a rollercoaster of emotions. I know I was laughing out loud envisioning Lance blasting ppl to bits and then soup dribbling down his chin. There is something so boyish about him. Oh this reminds me, I have some Daisy thoughts to pass on in a PM. OH and I keep forgetting to say, thanks for visiting my LJ! ;)  
_

_Mendenbar-good point about Lance being too inwardly turned for April. She seems much more outwardly expressive to me. I do think she's not the best at picking up on social clues. Like for instance, when Cam is trying to ask Dr. B about work, and April thinks Dr. B' asking her about her sex life. Gah!_

_

* * *

_

Halloween came and went, and the brilliant orange and ochre leaves began to loosen from their branched bondage. Lance was headed up to his office for another meeting with the dynamic duo—their first in weeks. The psychologist wasn't thinking about them, however. He was deep into a fantasy based on the morning he had spent with April. Hot, sweaty bodies, entangled in the sheets—

"Oof!" Lance exhaled as he smashed headfirst into Caroline Julian, a prosecutor in the U.S. Attorney's office.

"You know, if I were the youngest profiler ever to be hired by the FBI, I might keep my head up and watch where I was going!" Caroline said dogmatically.

Lance was a little frightened by Caroline. "Sorry, Ms. Julian!" he said frantically trying to slip by her imposing form.

"Not so fast—I hear you've been doing good work lately. I heard that you actually helped put Agent Booth on the right trail in that Halloween case. They caught and killed the guy—Pete Someone, an EMT. I know I shouldn't be smilin', but I sleep better at night knowing creeps like that are dead."

"Oh, great! I hadn't heard that they caught him!" Lance's ego was doing tiny jumping jacks of success. He was so pleased it was plainly written on his face.

"Well don't get too smug there, Cherie. We only catch 'em sometimes." Her eyebrows flattened out over her piercing gaze, and Lance excused himself.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Booth and Brennan were sitting across from Lance. Sitting was actually not what Booth was doing. Booth was pacing around, ordering Sweets to profile a new case. Lance was still feeling pretty self-satisfied about his previous success, regardless of Caroline's warning, but he wasn't about to let Booth derail this session.

In fact, Lance had devised a new tactic based on the realization that he had been taking himself too seriously. He would be firm in directing the conversation but remain lighthearted when Brennan and Booth attempted to push his buttons. He had actually envisioned an entire arc for how this session would go, complete with role playing. Therapy shouldn't always be fraught.

"That's not what we're here for today, Agent Booth," he responded to Booth's demand that he profile. "This time is for you and Dr. Brennan." Though he had to admit, he was flattered that Booth was asking for his help.

Lance looked over at Dr. Brennan for support and sensed her agitation. She looked almost hostile. But, for once, not at him.

"So have any conflicts or issues arisen since our last session?" Lance asked gazing at Brennan.

Booth assured, "Bones and I are doing just great."

Lance ignored this. "You look angry Dr. Brennan."

For once, Dr. Brennan appeared eager to be read. She opened up, "I told Agent Booth a _private_," as she said the word private, she held up a hand to block Lance from inquiring further, "story about my childhood…and he laughed."

Lance looked at Booth for confirmation. It was clear that Booth had actually hurt Brennan's feelings. She was seeking Lance's help. His pride swelled a little more.

"What no! I was appreciating it! Don't get him involved," Booth said desperately.

As Brennan retorted, "Snorting does not suggest appreciation," Lance realized he finally had the upper hand with these two. They were no longer a completely united front.

Booth divulged that the story Brennan had shared involved a cartoon character from the 1980s, and Lance eagerly pointed out that childhood icons were often meaningful to people. He confessed his own past attachment to Voltron, his heart swelling slightly at the memory. God, he had always wanted to be Keith the commander and pilot of the Black Lion!

He got crickets in response and sensed his edge slipping away.

He tried, "You're hurt, Dr. Brennan, because you feel you've opened up to Agent Booth, and he betrayed that trust…" Booth interrupted but Lance pressed on. "Perhaps a way to bring this relationship back into symmetry is if you reveal a childhood story about yourself. Show your vulnerability."

Lance guessed that Booth had great difficulty opening up about his past. He sensed Booth had painful secrets, and his tough guy exterior was his defense mechanism, rather like Brennan's rationality. While the story Brennan had chosen to share seemed strangely comical, given that it involved Smerfette, Lance could see plainly on Brennan's face that this incident had shaped her. The Booth-Brennan partnership was off its axis, and Lance was their guide back into equilibrium.

Annoyed, Agent Booth suggested that Brennan go play Voltron with Lance. Clearly he resented the fact that Brennan had turned the tables by ganging up with Lance instead of Booth. Usually, Lance was the butt of all ridicule.

Surely Agent Booth had been _that_ guy in high school, Lance thought. The popular kid, the one everyone liked. A smooth talker and a bit of a class clown. Lance had always been a little jealous of people like that. He, possibly like Dr. Brennan, had been the withdrawn intellectual, who kids either taunted or ignored.

Even now Lance couldn't help but say a little spitefully to Booth, "You were the golden boy who could get away with anything by turning on the charm."

Unsurprisingly, this accusation was sloughed off by a defensive Booth: "That's ridiculous! You don't even know who I am!"

Lance had begun a verbal war yet again. He explained to Booth that he was holding onto that persona, was afraid to reveal himself.

"I'm an FBI agent—I get shot at every day! I'm not afraid of anything!" growled Booth.

While the conversation seemed to be escalating for Booth, Lance felt eerily calm. He had learned how to diffuse Booth's ire. Booth was sarcastic and sometimes snarky, but Lance had already glimpsed the man's light-hearted and kind core. The way to tame the savage beast was _not_ to take Booth too seriously. Besides, he still had Brennan on his side.

Almost smiling, Lance said calmly, "Ok, this is obviously very difficult for you, but you shouldn't be ashamed," he paused for effect, "to ask for help."

Dr. Brennan was nodding sagely, also a little amused at Booth's outburst. "You shouldn't," she agreed.

Booth seemed to have nowhere to turn. "Ok, I apologize. I do need help…"

Lance smiled. Had he finally won by not allowing himself to be riled?

Booth finished, "With this case!" Lance deflated slightly like a balloon. "So while you review this, I will reveal myself to Bones."

The innuendo caused Lance to frown, but he did note that Booth was taking his advice. All in all, a win. Lance finally took the file, if for no other reason than to get Booth to stop shoving it into his face.

The psychologist had successfully diffused the tension, so it seemed an appropriate moment for…

"Now for the remainder of the time, we'll do roll play!" Lance exclaimed encouragingly. He produced two hats—a cowboy hat and Sherlock Holmes cap. Brennan obediently put hers on, her face a little like a poodle who was being forced to wear a bow. Booth was more overtly displeased.

The agent muttered, "Now I know why I'm not allowed to bring my gun in here."

Lance giggled with amusement. If only he had a camera. He wanted to remember the look on their faces for a long time. He found that he rather loved Team B today. He also believed with triumph that he had finally learned to manage these two. The massive cloud of insecurity that had been hanging over the new therapist for weeks began to dissipate.

Therapy with Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth was an odd rollercoaster of power struggle, amusing banter, and fascinating character study. It was exhilarating.


	13. Chapter 13

_It's back! I'm sorry I've been neglecting this story-I've been out of town and this one doesn't come as easily as some, though I enjoy pondering Lance's early career. I'll update it regularly until completion now, which will probably be in around 5 chapters._

_Thank you kindly to those who have been reading and following, and actually pick back up with the story after this hiatus. I appreciate your support! _

_

* * *

_

Booth guided Lance over to the Jeffersonian for the psychologist's first peek inside the storied Institute. Lance had been working on a profile for Booth regarding the victim discovered in a high school time capsule and was headed to consult with Dr. Brennan in her office on a potential suspect. Quite frankly, Lance was elated to be out of his office and on the grounds of the famous forensics department. He was enjoying his job at the FBI, but it involved a lot of sitting around, waiting for results. Therapy was a slow process with sometimes few rewards. Here at the Jeffersonian they caught murderers every day. Well maybe not _every_ day…

Lance scrambled alongside Booth like an eager puppy as they passed through the glass doors.

Booth was explaining, "Sweets, I'll show you to Bones' office. You can read my report there, and tell her what you glean from it on the suspect. Ok? I'm counting on you to come up with something useful," he finished, implying that he had gone out on a limb to get Brennan to collaborate with Lance.

Lance felt simultaneous pride that Booth trusted in his abilities and irritation that Brennan was reluctant to give him a chance.

Booth handed Lance his report and guided the psychologist inward and onward. The forensics lab of the Jeffersonian was all a-bustle. People in lab coats flitted back and forth bumping elbows, pipetting, pointing at computer screens. The main platform lay before him like the emerald city, sparkling with bizarre instruments and bleached bones. Lance almost felt a little dizzy, as machines whirred about his head and voices traded words he didn't recognize.

A tall and lovely woman with chocolate milk skin and a tight black bun appeared in their path. Right away, Lance had to swallow a twinge of intimidation. This woman was gorgeous and stern.

"Seeley." The woman's grave expression exploded into a grin of familiarly at the sight of Booth.

Woah, had those two dated? Lance sensed an old-flame vibe between them. The woman had a coy way of glancing up through her eyelashes that suggested former intimacy. He'd have to ask Agent Booth about her later.

"Cam, this is Sweets—he's a profiler and psychologist with the FBI. He's working on a profile for me on the time capsule case. Dr. Camille Saroyan," Booth waved carelessly at her.

Lance couldn't help but roll his eyes—Booth was obviously teasing him by introducing him as 'Sweets.' Booth was grinning from ear to ear, quite pleased with himself.

"Sweets?" Dr. Camille Saroyan asked, lifting an eyebrow and extending a hand to Lance. Dr. Saroyan was at least kind enough to keep the inevitable snickers about Lance's youth to herself. Or perhaps she was one of those people who actually waited to judge a person. Lance could hope.

"Dr. Lance Sweets," Lance corrected, taking her hand. It was small but firm.

Cam nodded in understanding and shot Booth a glance that said, 'Control yourself.'

Suddenly, an even taller woman, with finely curled black hair and a lovely complexion—half Asian? Lance speculated—approached. Lance wasn't sure he had ever seen a woman this sexy quite so close up, and this was even after meeting Dr. Saroyan. Was everyone at the Jeffersonian hot? Lance tried to contain his hormones, but his cheeks burned.

"Booth," the stranger nodded. "Who do we have here?"

Lance jutted out his hand before Booth could bungle his introduction again. "Lance Sweets." He immediately cursed himself for not including his impressive new title of 'doctor.'

"_Dr_. Lance Sweets," Lance corrected himself.

The woman's mouth widened in amused surprise. "Doctor? As in doctorate?"

Lance nodded.

"What are you 16?" she laughed.

Lance's cheeks reddened some more. He muttered the word 'no.'

"Angela Montenegro," she introduced herself, still giggling. Angela called over to a man with wild red curls and his dark-haired companion, both in lab coats. They seemed to have been listening in on both Cam's and Angela's conversations from their perch on the vast platform that now resembled less Wizard of Oz and more Oz to Lance, who wanted to flee for his life.

"Hodgins, Zack, c'mere. Booth has a new toy!" Angela's eyes danced with amusement. She seemed kind enough to her coworkers despite her strange and rather insulting introduction of Lance.

Standing there blushing and slightly hunched from embarrassment, Lance surely looked 16. He wanted to insist that Booth lead him immediately to Dr. Brennan's office. But he sheepishly remained where he was firmly planted.

The two men in lab coats approached, neither smiling. In fact, the red-headed one, who appeared to answer to 'Hodgins,' looked downright hostile. They didn't say anything but looked Sweets up and down. Then Hodgins chuckled and said, "Let's get back to work, Zack."

"What is so funny?" Zack asked in a monotone that reminded Lance of Dr. Brennan.

Hodgins shrugged and said, "He looks even younger than you, man. And he's got his doctorate? You're in for some competition, my friend!" Hodgins seemed tickled by this thought, though Lance didn't see the humor in the situation.

Neither did Zack it seemed, as this statement appeared to push his buttons. He scowled and said, "It's easy to get a Ph.D. in a field like psychology," and stalked away.

Lance was entirely offended and appealed to Booth for help with his eyes. Earning his doctorates had been no easy feat. Booth just smirked. This was a baptism by fire—no help from Booth. The agent simply prodded Lance toward Brennan's office once more.

"Well, here she is. You can read my report in there. See ya later, Sweets." Booth departed with a goofy wave toward Brennan through the glass. Brennan smiled but then looked less than pleased to see Lance.

Lance took a moment to regroup and revisit the initial excitement he had felt upon entering the Jeffersonian. After a deep breath, he was himself again—cheerful and ready to work.

Lance spent the next 20 minutes sitting on Brennan's couch, pouring over Booth's notes and pondering the agent who had written the report, rather than the suspect the report was about. Booth appeared to indeed have been popular back in high school. But Lance sensed singeing pain just beneath the surface of Booth's high school memories. Booth seemed to harbor a kind of savior complex. Lance wondered if the agent had confessed his promised embarrassing high school story to Brennan yet, but he didn't have the chance to ask. Dr. Brennan interrupted him suddenly, accusing him of being a slow reader.

Lance was a thorough analyzer when he read, which did slow him down quite a bit. But he did not relish Brennan's implication. After all, he'd just been laughed at by her entire forensics team. Still, Lance remained calm and lighthearted, as he had learned to do in therapy with his difficult patients. It was his best defense. Further, he was thrilled to be working so closely with the Jeffersonian on a case and didn't want to irk Brennan, his current connection to the team.

After a brief discussion with Brennan regarding the victim, Hodgins reappeared, in his red-headed fury, with some information on the case.

"Wow," Lance marveled. "With you people it's really go, go, go!"

Hodgins responded snarkily, "We're catching murderers."

"And that is SO dope!" Lance couldn't help but admit. Despite his shaky introduction to the team, he found he sought their approval, almost like they were the cool crowd at school. The consequences of the work they did here were life and death, and Lance wanted in.

Hodgins and Brennan exchanged irritated glances.

Nevertheless, the psychologist began to walk away with an exuberant, "I love being in the field!"

"Uh, you're in a secure lab," Hodgins corrected him.

Lance rejoined, "For eight hours a day I'm surrounded by neurotics. Ok? To me, this is fieldwork." He suddenly remembered that one of his patients was actually standing in this very room. "Uh, no offense, Dr. Brennan. I'll finish that profile."

He skedaddled before someone decided to never allow him back into the Jeffersonian.

* * *

Later that week, Lance was allowed to return to the Jeffersonian to deliver his completed "boy in the time capsule" profile to Booth and Brennan. They weren't wholly receptive of his explanation, and by the end, Lance basically admitted that he hoped his profile was correct so that he could impress April by helping to catch a murderer.

In fact, Booth remembered Lance's comment the next day and actually tracked down the psychologist to report that his profile had been correct. The case was a tragic one—the victim's best friend had accidentally murdered and then buried him, punishing himself for his crime ever since.

Booth seemed down about the case but punched Lance a little on the shoulder in the hallway of the FBI.

"Hey, maybe the only good thing to come of this case is that you actually get lucky with your girlfriend tonight."

It was a gruff delivery, but Booth didn't _have_ to give Lance any credit for his profile. The agent _wanted _to thank him. Booth was being nice.

For a moment, Lance fantasized about what it might be like to hang out with Booth, Brennan, and April all at once. Would Booth and Brennan like his girlfriend? She was pretty adorable—nice, perky, interested in others. But…was she smart enough to hold their attention? Just last night they had been playing Scrabble, and Lance had really had to hold back. Even so, he had easily broken 300 on his score, and she had barely topped 150. She hadn't even known the words spoor and prolix…and didn't everyone? Granted, Lance had spent many hours memorizing the dictionary as a boy before he was adopted, so perhaps his perspective was skewed.

Booth was speaking again, a serious look on his face. "Sweets, I want you to work on a new profile. A serial killer, called Gormogon."

The name itself was chilling, and a little thrill passed through Lance's body.

"Woah, awesome—a serial killer?" Lance instantly recognized that this was the most important case Booth had ever asked him to be a part of. "I mean…of course I'll help."

Booth shook his head. "Not awesome, Sweets. This guy, he kills, cooks, and eats people. Can you handle this case? It's a disturbing one." Booth's brow was furrowed, and Lance felt the tiniest bit ashamed for his enthusiastic reaction.

"I can handle it!" he replied confidently, snatching the file Booth was holding out to him almost greedily.


	14. Chapter 14

_**SFT**, **RT**, and **D**-thank you for the reviews! They are very encouraging. I mean VERY. I'm struggling to finish this story, but I refuse to leave a story hanging! At least on FF. :) **SFT**, I like your description of Angela as 'wicked.' She can be a little wicked. ;) Well put! **D**, I definitely agree that Booth is good for Sweets. I actually think he's helped Sweets overcome a lot of his insecurities on the show. Far more than Sweets' girlfriends have been shown to do. Booth's a good friend! **RT**, Any chance you can just end this story for me? In your nonexistent spare time? :)_

_Thanks to those still following! :D  
_

* * *

Lance was watching "The Empire Strikes Back"—his all time favorite movie—with April on the couch. His arm was casually slung around her, and Knox was splayed out in his lap. Knox had grown a little bigger since he had first come to reside with Lance, but he was still smaller than the average cat. He was licking his little white socks with his absurdly pink tongue, while April, who didn't enjoy cats (as natural predators of fish), was eying the feline with loathing. Lance was so engaged in the movie that he didn't notice her shooing the small cat under her breath.

"Shoo, cat. Shoo," April hissed.

"Mew?" Knox asked her innocently. In response, the absent minded Lance patted Knox on the head. This made April roll her eyes. Her boyfriend wasn't paying any attention to her. In the movie, Luke Skywalker drew an enormous, throbbing phallus of a light saber from its sheath. April shook her head—surrounded by boys. Finally, she just shoved Knox a little until he jumped off with a sulky flourish of tail. April snuggled down into Lance's arms a little more and stroked his abs hopefully. She was watching his intent brown eyes reflecting the starry space scene on the big screen.

Lance for his part was watching but also pondering the Gormogon case at work. He was fascinated. The cannibalistic murderer actually killed, cooked, and ate humans, then collected their bones to reassemble into a new skeleton—a sort of perverted refashioning of Adam. He pondered this symbolism for a moment and had a sudden flash of inspiration. There were two—a master and apprentice, just like on "Star Wars"! His stomach tickled, and thinking it was Knox, he brushed off his midsection. He met human hand instead of fur. And the person attached to the hand looked very angry at him.

"So that's what you do now when your girlfriend attempts to touch you? Shove me off?" April's eyes shone with watery rage. She hopped up to her fully erect state—which was not very tall.

"April! I'm sorry, I didn't think. I was…I was analyzing a case in my head. I didn't mean it. Please sit back down." He reached out to her, but she was retreating.

"I'm going to bed!" She called abruptly.

Lance really wanted to sit on the couch and analyze Gormogon's victims, as his brain was forging a connection among them. He did this for about five more minutes before attending to his furious girlfriend.

Lance sighed. He loved her, but maintaining their relationship was a lot of work. Lance thought of words his father had once spoken to him: "Love is a decision you make every day. It's not just a feeling. It requires effort and patience, but it is the most rewarding work you will ever do." With those words ringing in his ears, Lance headed for the bedroom. April was turned on her side away from him, rather adorably attired in a frumpy nightgown with little yellow flowers and a ruffle at its hem.

Lance hopped in bed and encircled her with his arms, drawing her against his body. He held her in silence for awhile, unsure of what to say.

Finally, he decided on, "I know I get engrossed in what I'm doing. I'm focused to a fault. It's how I was able to finish school so fast, but it can be a burden on you. I can see that." She didn't respond, so he continued, "The case I'm thinking about is really important. A lot of people have died and a lot more will die if we don't get to the bottom of who this Gormogon is." To try and peak her interest, Lance added, "He's a serial killer, who murders and eats people from secret societies!"

April just looked repulsed. "I appreciate that you're helping to catch a murderer, but I'm your partner. Aren't I the most important thing in your life?" She looked as though she felt selfish saying it, but there it was.

Lance buried his face in April's curls and mumbled, "You are the most important thing to me, April. I'm really sorry if I implied otherwise. I love you."

Lance realized that nobody liked to feel rejected, and April was probably reacting to what she felt was Lance's rebuff of her sexual advance on the couch more than anything. April was not very aggressive about intimacy, which bothered Lance a little. Lance had to be the initiator most of the time and was accustomed to being rejected by her from time to time. At this moment, he fought the urge to give her a taste of her own medicine.

Instead he tried, "April, I wish you'd be a little more aggressive with me sometimes. It's easy to miss when you want to…get physical with me. I need to feel wanted too." He was afraid of how she'd take this, but as a therapist Lance knew that one has to ask for what one needs.

April reacted poorly. "If you weren't always playing video games and watching TV, then maybe you'd notice a little more often when your girlfriend wanted you. Instead, you give your affection to your cat!"

April had pushed Lance's buttons with that statement. Lance had grown to love his little cat companion. He backed away and swung his legs to the side of the bed. He was really angry and surprised by how quickly he'd lost his temper. He was usually much more even keeled with April.

Without even thinking, he responded too harshly, "Perhaps you haven't noticed, but I've been hurting for quite some time. I just lost the two most important people in the world to me, and you haven't been very sympathetic." Therein was the rub, Lance realized.

"Don't make this about your parents! You didn't _just_ lose them. You're going to have to move on at some point."

Lance's chest was heaving. Maybe he was being immature, but he was deeply wounded. It was mid-November, and his parents had only died in the summer. April couldn't possibly have expected him to move on already, could she? Lance hated fighting with anyone, let alone the woman he loved, and he wasn't sure how to proceed. He wanted to make up, but they hadn't resolved anything. He sat on the edge of the bed for what seemed an eternity, arguing with himself.

Finally, Lance asked gently, "Would you like me to stop playing video games? I can see it really bothers you. I know I don't have a lot of spare time, and we should spend it together. We can do more things, like…like our ceramics class."

April sat up and gazed at Lance sadly. "No, I don't want you to change for me. But I do enjoy our ceramics class." She looked down at her hands. "I'm sorry. I overreacted."

Lance climbed over to April and held her again, rocking her a little.

"I love you!" He said brightly and softly.

She nodded. "I love you too." Her grip on his arms was loose.

Lance was kicking himself for letting April get away with taking a jab at his perfectly legitimate grief. For a therapist, he really sucked at relationships. He just couldn't fight the feeling that if he messed up, she would leave.

* * *

The next day, Lance decided to drop in at the Jeffersonian to deliver his new theory on Gormogon. Everyone was already assembled and discussing the case when he arrived. Lance tried to brush off the fact that Dr. Brennan hadn't known that Booth had involved the psychologist on the profile and that she seemed thoroughly cross about it. For whatever reason, he and Brennan were engaged in a kind of professional battle between science and psychology. He hadn't signed up for this war, but now he was stuck with her antagonism. He imagined her hostility toward psychology had to do with his pushing her buttons in therapy and forcing her to confront the pesky emotions that she buried deep beneath her logical exterior. Further, there were more similarities between the two fields than either of them liked to admit, perhaps even putting their analytical skills in competition during cases.

Lance forged ahead and explained his theory that the Gormogon was actually a duo—a master and apprentice—as well as his hypothesis that the next victim would be a "corrupter" in the more archaic sense of the word. He was surprised that most of the team seemed fairly receptive of his ideas, even impressed. He hoped this was a sign that their initial hostility toward him was beginning to fizzle. Hodgins and Angela had seemed to detest him on the spot. Zack had appeared completely indifferent. Cam just seemed to regard Lance as another sheep to be corralled into place, bleating for her attention when she had very little time to give. He was desperate to turn a corner with them.

After the meeting, Lance strode toward the exit, feeling a little more at ease at the Jeffersonian than he had on his first visit.

Hodgins, who was heading toward his lab station, said to Lance in passing, "That's quite a triumphant grin there, _Dr. Sweets_." Hodgins pronounced his name with contempt. "Better watch out. You don't want to appear to relish comprehending the mind of a serial killer _too_ much." He then brushed past the psychologist, who stood in confused silence.

Booth was also walking by. "Oh don't worry about Hodgins. He's kind of the resident conspiracy nut." Booth's smile confirmed that Lance shouldn't be concerned.

And yet…Lance had worried about exactly _that_ going into profiling. The psychologist had his own dark past that could have easily led him down a path of crime and misanthropy. He had chosen another path, but how much did he really want to admit that he understood Gormogon? Wouldn't a truly good person _not_ be able to get inside the mind of a flesh-eating madman? Was it actually a bad thing to be good at profiling?

For the hundredth time since his parents' deaths, Lance wished his mom and dad were here to reassure him that a virtuous man was constructed of his actions not his thoughts. Or at least he hoped they would say something like that. Now he had to dispense and take his own advice.


	15. Chapter 15

_One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish...We have come to the end! Thanks to those who have read through, enjoyed, and especially reviewed. It's been a fun, if sometimes hard to navigate, journey. See you at the next Sweets story!_

* * *

Christmas came, as the Gormogon case continued to flummox the Jeffersonian team. April left to celebrate Hanukkah with her family in New York. She'd invited Lance, but he'd politely declined. He needed to bear this first Christmas without his parents on his own.

The highlight of the holiday was that Lance had actually connected with Dr. Brennan, oddly enough, when he had donned an elf hat at their meeting at the diner. Brennan had been irked by Booth's insistence that it was acceptable and reasonable to lie to children, such as Parker, at Christmas. At the diner, Lance explained to Brennan that it is our responsibility as adults to sanctify the space of childhood and allow kids to believe in a better world. This was the gift Lance's parents had given to him. Amazingly, she'd understood and agreed with his advice right away, or so it seemed. She'd even spent Christmas with her father and brother in jail instead of migrating south to Peru. Dr. Brennan was making huge strides in her interpersonal behavior, and Lance couldn't help but take a little credit for guiding her.

The low point of the holiday was Christmas Day, which in the past had involved gathering around the fire with his parents and reading stories, drinking cocoa, and simply enjoying each other's company. This year it was just Lance and Knox. Knox was sick and vomited on and off throughout the day. It took all of Lance's attention to keep the little cat from barfing on his beautiful Mason and Hamlin grand piano. At one point, Lance heard Knox begin to heave while perched on the piano bench. Lance hurled his body across the space of the room just in time to grab a very frightened Knox, who puked on his shirt instead. Lying there, gripping the squirming cat with feline vomit streaked on his chest, Lance felt empty—like his body had opened up and dumped his essence out into space. He had no direction, no thoughts, except pain.

Lance felt terribly sorry for himself. He zapped a frozen burrito, devoured it, and went to bed at noon, while the rest of the world spun on in joyous seasonal revelry. He didn't wake up till the next morning, at which point he listened to his phone messages.

"Hey, Lance. It's April! Happy Hanukkah and Christmas, I guess! Whichever it is you celebrate." April had come to accept that Lance wasn't much of a practicing Jew despite where they had first met. "I wish you were here—we had the most delicious turkey. And…you've been distant lately. I just wish we could go back to the way things were when we first met. You know? I…I love you," her voice quavered.

That was not the kind of message one liked to get from a girlfriend on Christmas. She sounded like she was souring on him. A part of Lance began to prepare for yet another season of loss.

* * *

In the spring, however, things improved a bit with April, at least from Lance's perspective. His birthday came and went, and she seemed positively overjoyed to help Lance wave goodbye to age 22.

Lance's most irritating patients had also become his undeniable favorites. Booth's trust in Lance's profiling abilities almost made up for the snickers he got from the dynamic duo in therapy. Almost…

They were sitting before him, bantering as usual, and Lance had a flash of inspiration. Booth and Brennan spent too much time discussing their work. If they were going to confront what Lance saw as their obvious attraction, they needed to feel open talking about their personal lives with one another. Further, both partners were unhealthily fixated on their jobs and seemed to lack all hobbies or other diversions in their lives.

Besides, Lance couldn't help it—he really liked hanging out with Booth and Brennan, and lately his dates with April had grown a bit stale and constrictive. When he was around Booth's and Brennan's particular blend of wit and warmth, he could almost forget about his parents and enjoy life again.

He prescribed for Booth and Brennan: "an evening out with my girlfriend and me." He said it quickly, hoping they would just agree without too much dispute.

Booth was horrified at the prospect of a "double date," but Brennan appeared receptive enough. Lance found their disparate responses interesting. Perhaps Brennan was looking for an excuse to hang out with Booth in a less formal setting, Lance mused.

* * *

The "double date" of Booth's nightmares took place at April's and Lance's ceramics class. And it did not go well. Lance had warned April to keep the conversation light and non-work related, but she immediately picked up on Booth's impertinent attempt to discuss his recent case involving a paraplegic.

"April," Lance warned, when she expressed interest.

"Oopsie," she replied in faux innocence. Lance laughed nervously. She didn't seem at all concerned with upholding their agreement or helping him to save face in front of his patients.

Then the topic took a turn for the worse as Brennan asked April about her fish. Lance rolled his eyes inwardly. April was unnaturally attached to her fish—Booth and Brennan would never understand. He began to feel a bit embarrassed for her.

Sure enough, she brought up, "You can see their little souls. You can see it in their coloring."

Brennan was predictably taken aback and judgmental.

Lance swept in to try to help his girlfriend not appear to be a complete idiot in front of the anthropologist.

"April just means they're beautiful."

"Don't tell me what I mean, Lance! I mean they have souls." April snapped, looking murderous.

Lance couldn't believe they were fighting in front of Booth and Brennan—this was the worst case scenario. If he didn't look like he had his relationship together, why should they trust him to help with theirs?

Meanwhile, Booth was crafting a spectacular horse from his clay. Lance was shocked, considering Booth had been complaining about being forced to "make something" all week. The agent had artistic chops. Move over, Angela.

After everyone had complimented Booth's clay steed, Lance attempted to regain his footing. "Yours is good too, April." He nodded toward her pot.

"I'm not talking to you!" she defied her boyfriend.

In amusement, Brennan asked Booth, "Are they fighting?"

Even in Lance's panicked state he heard Booth come to his defense, which he greatly appreciated.

"You can't apologize for me, Lance," April continued.

She was glaring at him. Just when Lance saw no way out of his dispute with April, Booth attempted to save the situation yet again with humor. He slung some clay at his partner, who looked indignant, then tickled, then accepted his duel. Lance chuckled also, and in an attempt to get in on the fun, playfully tossed a bit of clay at his own girlfriend. April fumed and sloshed an enormous mess of clay right at Lance's face.

Gray sludge streaked his eyes, mouth, and nose. Lance tried to laugh as he mopped off the muck in misery.

"Yeah, this is fun," Lance said smiling but dejected. Booth looked sorry for him.

April and Lance hardly spoke that night. Lance thought: it's coming. She doesn't want me anymore. Oddly, he didn't take the time to ponder how _he_ felt about her.

* * *

Lance's prediction was correct. April broke up with him several days later one morning before work, uncourteously leaving him devastated and unable to concentrate for the entire day.

"Lance, I think you and I both know this isn't working. You're just…too young, too immature."

"I'm too immature? Can you give me an example of what I've done?"

"Well, you try to speak for me. You are embarrassed of me! I'm a fine person. I don't need you to explain me to the world!" she exclaimed defiantly.

"I'm not embarrassed…" Oh God, that _was_ true, Lance thought guiltily. "And you speak for me too—telling Booth and Brennan that I love our ceramics class!"

"You don't?"

"No, I like it fine. That's not the point. And you know what, you did embarrass me in front of them—you made me look foolish, fighting in front of patients."

"Why? Because my job isn't good enough, or because I wouldn't let you get away with explaining away my personality?"

Lance sat down. "April. I love your personality. Your vibrancy, your…"

"Lance, stop. It's over. We need to move on."

Her voice was shaking a little from nervousness, like breaking up with Lance was on par with performing a cello solo at the Kennedy Center. It was endearing, and made Lance all the more sorry to lose her.

"But…I'm still in love with you," he pleaded.

"I'm sorry, but you're a lot to handle emotionally. I'm exhausted. I talked to Dr. Brennan, and she agrees: you and I just aren't blue fish. I'm sorry. You're a good person. You'll find someone new."

Lance's eyes filled with tears. He was crushed that she had talked about their relationship to Dr. Brennan. Dr. Brennan belonged to Lance's world! Further, he had no idea what she meant by blue fish. But he couldn't speak to ask her; he was too choked up. This was like being rejected by his first girlfriend—Chelsea—all over again. She had seen his scars, been repulsed, and never spoken to him again. April was basically saying the same thing. His baggage was too heavy. He heard her gather up a few of her things and leave.

* * *

All day Lance moped around his office, fighting tears. By the end of the evening, he felt he would go insane if he remained alone any longer with his terrible thoughts. No one would ever love him. Even those who put forth a fighting effort like April eventually couldn't stand the burden of being close to him. He was too damaged, too high maintenance.

Lance had to admit fault in the situation. If part of the human quest for love was to be understood, then he had never really let in April. He had only explained enough about his past to account for his disfigurement. April knew almost nothing about the pre-FBI Lance. She hadn't seemed to want to know, perhaps from a general lack of curiosity (which was bad enough) or worse, a sense that she might find Lance repulsive if she knew the truth of him.

He tried to remind himself that for quite some time things had not been clicking in their relationship, but right now he just loved her and mourned her loss. Bereavement piled on bereavement was all too much. Without knowing exactly what he was doing, he trudged toward the Jeffersonian.

Lance searched the platform and heard voices on the second floor. Booth and Brennan were seated in the lounge.

"Oh, hey guys. I didn't know you'd be here," Lance explained pathetically, his face showing signs of recent tears.

Booth and Brennan called out his lie. They could see plainly that he'd been seeking them out.

"April dump you?" Booth asked gently.

Brennan was shocked and asked how Booth could tell. "He has that dumpy look on his face," Booth replied knowingly.

They invited Lance to take a seat. He felt oddly warm in their presence.

Lance asked Brennan, "Did you think April was pretty?" Typical of the brokenhearted, he was desperately seeking reassurance that April was not right for him.

After glancing at Booth, Brennan endearingly fibbed, "Not at all."

Lance smiled. Brennan was being generous.

"Come on, Sweets. What do you say we go bowling?" Booth asked.

This sounded like a terrible, if kindly meant, suggestion. Lance stunk at bowling and didn't feel like piling a big loss onto his already fragile ego. He declined, but before he knew it, Booth was wheeling his rolling chair toward the exit, like Lance was the paraplegic. It was a friendly gesture that said, 'I'll carry your burden.'

There was something ironic about the fact that the woman Lance had believed was so accepting of him had dumped him, while the two people he had perceived as initially hostile truly accepted him. They didn't even care that he was a mess at this moment; they rose to the occasion. Lance suddenly felt more at home in the Jeffersonian than he did in his apartment.

"Come on, Sweets. Get up. I'll buy you a beer at the bowling ally." Booth put a friendly hand on Lance's shoulder and nearly lifted the young psychologist's entire weight out of the chair.

Lance gazed at the encouraging faces of the two people he found he admired most in the world now that his parents were gone. He gave up, and let them handle things for once.


End file.
